


Ghost Lights

by PunkHazard



Series: Kent [2]
Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 12:27:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21969280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PunkHazard/pseuds/PunkHazard
Summary: Maxwell spends her first Christmas with Goddard Futuristics in some unexpected company.
Relationships: Warren Kepler & Alana Maxwell
Series: Kent [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1276967
Comments: 11
Kudos: 55





	Ghost Lights

Over the last two months, Maxwell's familiarized herself with every last facet of Hyperion's operating system. He's got a mainframe the size of a house deep underground in a sub-basement, a laboratory complex in the basement stretching far beyond the range of the structure visible above ground, and even a subroutine called Ambrosius that was refined in Goddard's test kitchens providing food for the team in upstate New York. After she'd completed the paperwork and submitted it to Goddard HR, she'd been offered a room and a position at the satellite lab.

Kepler had also suggested that he might want her on his team in Strategic Intelligence, but in the moment the prospect of getting to know Hyperion was much more appealing and he hadn't pressed the issue. The AI himself is lively and curious, always eager to help, and Maxwell had taken a shine to him immediately. 

Other scientists at work in the lab consist entirely of a small, tight-knit group of three. They're friendly enough to Alana, but all of them live in town, carpooling to and from work, nearly an hour's drive away. Maxwell was neither interested in nor invited to any social gatherings they had there, which is just as well, because Hyperion's good company all on his own.

The complex had largely powered down over the last three days when a snowstorm took out the roads, and by the time they were cleared Christmas had rolled around and the rest of the team decided to spend their accumulated vacation days all at once on a trip to the west coast for a seminar on language development in artificial intelligence. 

(Maxwell, having _presented_ at that conference the year before, had declined the invitation to join them. Not least because she hadn't accumulated any vacations yet.)

Part of her would've been grateful for more company. Hyperion's been sleepy and quiet, a result of snow blocking his solar panels and his need to conserve energy from the backup generators, and while the holidays are difficult for many people, she's never had a problem with isolation.

As it is, she's sitting in a lovely living area in a luxurious mansion in upstate New York avoiding looking at her phone as it vibrates. There are sixteen missed calls from DO NOT PICK UP and several voicemails. In an absolutely ill-advised moment of stupidity she had, indeed, picked up one of those calls about an hour ago. How her parents manage to track down her number _every year_ is a mystery to Alana, considering how much they seemed to dislike technology when she still lived with them.

It started innocently enough; her mother asking if she was eating well and not overworking herself. It had very quickly become questions about her work, her current location, the veiled implication that creating artificial intelligences is some kind of blasphemy. She had skillfully deflected several suggestions that she return to Montana, and then her father had elbowed his way onto the call to inquire as to whether or not she's got plans to attend a Christmas service, which Alana also expertly dodged. 

To their credit, this call involved no screaming matches, a feat of restraint on her part and a test of her newly-developed ability to navigate social niceties gained from two years of trying to wheedle her way into more funding at Nash. They did not end the call on particularly good terms, hostile on all sides, and she's gotten a few angry texts from her older brother about how the family feels abandoned by her but are willing to take her back if she repents for sins against God. As if leaving Montana were some sort of exile instead of an extremely voluntary exodus. 

But it could've gone worse. 

She'll ask Hyperion to delete it all later, when she's done sniffling into a couch cushion. 

What she doesn't expect is a pair of headlights in the window, drawing closer and brighter as gravel crunches in the driveway. Whoever's driving lets themselves out of the car and approaches the front door, which Hyperion obligingly unlocks. 

There are roughly half a dozen people for whom Hyperion unlocks doors; even Alana and the other scientists stationed here are required to swipe a cardkey. She has no time to bolt for her room, or the bathroom, or even a sink to wash her face and pull herself together when Major Warren Kepler shoulders the door open.

He greets her with a nod, kicking snow off his boots and brushing newly-fallen flakes off his shoulders. "Dr. Maxwell," he says, "and Hyperion. Merry Christmas."

"Major, hi." Alana scrubs discreetly at her face while Kepler shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on a hook that extends automatically out of the wall. He also steps out of his boots and deposits them in a niche that opens up, already set to dry them out over the next few hours. The full concierge treatment from Hyperion; Alana's not jealous at all. "What are... you doing here so late?"

"Wrapped up an assignment nearby and needed to file a mission report. This is the only secure Goddard facility for hours around." He sounds tired, unsurprising so close to midnight, but takes a second to scrutinize Maxwell anyway. "Are you... all right?"

"Fine."

He does her the courtesy of not looking skeptical, and motions for her to stand up and follow him to the kitchen. "Great! Come with me."

Alana shuffles after him, trying not to feel too self-conscious about her fleece pajamas and fuzzy winter house slippers. He practically melts into the shadows of the corridor, making no sound whatsoever in his socks. "Um, sir?"

"The kitchen officially shuts down at ten," he says, flipping the light on and approaching a counter, "but if you swipe in, some of the machines are still functional. The sandwich maker, for instance."

"I didn't know that."

"Well, it's one of those things you learn the more time you spend out here. Hot chocolate?"

"Why did you want me here?" Alana asks, her voice low. The last time they spoke was when he gave her access codes to the self-driving car so she could move her belongings upstate. 

"Ambrosius gets a little testy sometimes if I wake him up during off-hours, so I figured I'd bring backup." No stranger herself to raiding the kitchen for a midnight snack (although she usually has to do everything manually at that hour), Alana just watches Kepler press a few buttons on the coffee machine. "And I think you could use some cocoa," he adds.

"Looks like he's on auto tonight," she observes. No special orders. "We've been snowed in for a few days, so Hyperion's on power saver mode."

Kepler nods, still focused on the task at hand. He takes a mug out from the cabinet-- the heavy, slate-gray one no one ever uses and Alana's without needing to ask which one belongs to her. "Dark chocolate, milk chocolate, or white?"

"Dark."

"Good taste." 

They wait in silence for the cocoa to finish dispensing. Then, halfway to delivering the cup into her hands, Kepler blinks owlishly at her face and he retracts it. Maxwell's brows rise as Kepler pulls a flask from his back pocket and he unscrews the lid with his teeth. He splashes a generous amount of what must be expensive whiskey into her cup, and then a little bit more when Maxwell interrupts her own soft, involuntary laugh with one last sniffle. 

His own cup of cocoa has been dispensed in the meantime, and he gives her a cheeky wink as he pours a shot of liquor into it and replaces the top on his flask.

It's only with the steaming porcelain mug warming her palms that Maxwell registers just how cold her hands had been. "Thank you," she whispers, taking a sip. While Alana quietly marvels at the smoky hint of scotch underlying the rich, creamy flavor of hot cocoa, Hyperion dims the kitchen lights to a level that's much easier on her eyes.

"Don't mention it, Dr. Maxwell." Taking a sip of his own, Kepler leans back against the counter, ankles crossing casually as he folds his arms across his chest. He gestures toward the window with his mug. "Awfully cold today, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"You know, that reminds me... Have I ever told you about the time I helped relocate a polar bear from an Alaskan weather research station?" A laugh. "We had to cobble together a _blowgun_ to tranquilize it."

"I don't think you have, sir." 

"Well," Kepler starts, "we had a team of four up in Anchorage ready to ship out..."

* * *

Later, once Kepler's got a sandwich in him and they're both on their second mug of hot cocoa, a fire crackling in the sleek metal hearth Alana hadn't even realized was a fireplace (it's the one part of the house Hyperion doesn't control), he peers at her over the rim of his cup. "Ready to tell me what's going on?" Kepler asks, and the tone is easy, his expression neutral. If there's a warning in his voice, she isn't sure what it's trying to tell her. 

"The season," she answers cautiously, nestling deeper into her throw blanket and taking a sip of her drink, "is difficult for a lot of people." She privately thanks whatever higher power is looking out for her that her phone is silent now.

"That's true."

It's hardly a satisfactory answer, and he waits in silence for her to keep talking. Her situation isn't unique, but Alana can't think of a way out of this conversation. Besides, with everything else he knows about her, shouldn't Kepler be able to _guess_ what's wrong? 

"My parents called," she says after a while. 

Honestly, she should've been over it the moment she left home. Moreover, she definitely shouldn't have picked up any call with a Montana area code, but Christmas used to be the one time of year her family was bearable. More generous with their time, the occasional indulgence of a hand-me-down Lego set or an electric toy car. Every year, Maxwell takes the call and is clocked over the head with the reminder that they only seemed bearable at Christmas in comparison to how miserable every other day of the year was. 

"They give you any trouble?" Kepler asks. 

"No, just manipulation and guilt-tripping. What else is new?"

"I'd spend Christmas alone too," he comments lightly, "if that was the alternative."

"I've got you and Hyperion," Alana points out, "sir."

"Well, I guess that counts for something." He looks up, eyeing one of Hyperion's sensors. "Glad to have you here, Doctor. You too, Hyperion."

"Likewise, Major."

Kepler's phone buzzes. He fishes it out of his pocket and checks the notification, the distant smirk he'd had on his lips stretching into a wide, warm grin. Alana watches him wipe it off his face before he looks up at her, gesturing briefly with the device. "I've gotta take a call, if you don't mind."

"Sure."

"Jacobi!" He doesn't bother standing or moving to another room, gesturing briefly for Alana to stay silent while he sets his phone to speaker and holds it up. Whoever's on the line, Kepler seems to like him. "How's the tropical paradise? And before you say anything, you're on speaker."

"Are you with someone?"

"Need to know," Kepler croons.

There's a huff and a laugh on the other end, an eyeroll in Jacobi's answering drawl. "Just wishing you were here, sir."

"I'll be joining you in three days, so don't miss me too much. I need a sitrep in the meantime."

"Everything's in order." Alana's never heard someone audibly straighten their back before, but Jacobi does it. "I've gotten friendly with our... primary contact, and people are feeling pretty generous with intel around the holidays. Couple little surprises, but nothing I couldn't handle."

"Naturally."

"Other than that, I'm just waiting on you to arrive."

"Sorry to put you out at this time of year." Kepler drags a hand down his face, and he looks almost genuinely regretful. "I would've been there instead if this thing in Ithaca hadn't blown up."

"It's pretty rough out here, Major. You know how much more I'd rather be freezing my butt off upstate, but for you, I guess I can tolerate white sand beaches and perfect weather. _And_ ," continues Jacobi, mock-indignant over the Major's quiet laugh, "I have to miss the company party."

"Happy holidays, Jacobi." Kepler finally looks at Maxwell over the phone, a crooked grin back on his face. "Thanks for checking in."

"You too, sir."

"Let me know if anything changes. Want snacks from Canaveral?"

"You remember those shrimp chips we had last time? Can you get your hands on those again?"

"I'll do what I can. See you soon."

"You're the best. Good night, sir."

Kepler hangs up with a brisk affirmative. Alana nurses her cocoa, peering at him over her knees while he swipes out another message on his phone. From her vantage point, it seems to be a set of further instructions, more detailed ones.

"Major Kepler?" she says.

He answers without looking up. "Yes, Dr. Maxwell?"

"Who was that?"

"My second in command. You'll meet him one of these days if you're ever in Canaveral."

"You sound close," she comments.

"We've worked together for a while." Finishing his message, Kepler pushes himself to his feet, empty mug in hand. "I'm turning in, and I suggest you do the same."

"I will," she answers, watching him retreat to the residential area and let himself into a room that's usually locked down tight.

* * *

She's up the next morning at 0830, nursing a coffee in the kitchen when Kepler finally joins her. She's still groggy but at least she's out of her pajamas, and has to rub her eyes a few times as he clomps into the kitchen with his hair soaked and his jacket dark with meltwater. He brandishes a brush ice scraper, its bristles caked in snow, and uses it to tap more snow off his boots. "Spent the morning clearing solar panels," he says, which would explain why Hyperion's turned all the appliances back on.

"Oh," says Maxwell. "Thanks?"

"Dr. Maxwell," Kepler says, shrugging out of his jacket and picking a manila envelope off the kitchen counter, "are you doing... alright?"

"Doing great," she says, and means it. The loneliness of spending time alone in the house seems distant with Hyperion back online and Kepler's expansive presence. "Much better."

"Happy to hear it." He slaps the folder down in front of her. "Sign this. Feel free to read it over first."

Maxwell slips a sheaf of papers out of the folder, documents dated to the night before. She scans it on her first pass, then reads it more closely the second. "A restraining order?"

"Had the boys in legal draw it up for you. Now, there's no pressure to submit if you don't want to, but--" Kepler blinks, startled at the speed with which Maxell had taken the pen from his jacket pocket, signed, and returned it, "oh. Alright then."

She clutches the documents to her chest, her eyes wide. "Can this be enforced across state lines?"

"Every state must abide by the terms of the restraining order regardless of their own laws," he confirms. "It will be enforced... by Goddard security as detailed on page fourteen. Any violations can result in criminal charges. If you like, we can block certain numbers and messages from even showing up in your phone."

"I've tried before," Alana says quietly, aware as soon as she says it that he must already have known, "but no judge would approve the terms against my family."

"You've never had me in your corner before."

She lays the documents back onto the counter, smoothing its pages like it's some priceless artifact. Kepler's exchange with Jacobi the night before is still fresh in her mind, their easy comfort, the playful teasing; thoughtlessly, recklessly stepping up for each other. Something wild kicks in her chest. "Are you in my corner?" Alana asks, meeting his gaze.

"You're with Goddard Futuristics now," he answers. Another taste. A bare whiff of what it could mean to live in Warren Kepler's confidence. "It'd be a waste if you didn't make full use of those resources."

She watches him leave, eyes on the sway of his broad shoulders.

* * *

She knocks on his door just before noon, her own manila folder in hand. Kepler beckons her in, looking up from the ream of paperwork on his desk when she sets her package down on top of it. "Here."

"Thank you," he says, shifting it to the side to scrawl a note in the margins of a dense, partially redacted page. 

"You don't want to know what it is?"

"I know what it is." He puts down his pen, standing to extend his arm across the desk. "Welcome to the SI-5, Dr. Maxwell."

She clasps the proffered hand, noting and imitating the pressure of it. His grip is just strong enough to assert his confidence; light enough not to be a threat. Short enough not to be awkward but just long enough to hint at intimacy. _Oh,_ she thinks. _He's good._ "Thanks for having me, Major Kepler."

His smile is all teeth. "Pleasure's mine."

* * *

Cutter contacts him in the middle of his lunch, and he lets the videocall ring three times (enough time to wash an in-advisably large bite of sandwich down with lukewarm coffee) before answering. 

"Warren!" Cutter greets him with a wave and a wide, ecstatic grin. "You look chipper today."

"I feel chipper today," Kepler answers, "Mr. Cutter, sir."

The other man's eyes narrow, his smile sharp. "I'm _so_ glad you liked your present."

Kepler ignores the chill that slides down his spine. "My... present?"

"Your new operative." 

"Ah." His sudden reassignment upstate, and Maxwell's parents calling her. He should've figured Cutter had a hand in this; Warren had only seen an opportunity and seized it, but it had seemed to be an awfully conveniently timed opportunity. 

"I know you've been trying to get her on board for a while, but you were taking so long I thought I'd just... nudge things along. And you never disappoint."

"My apologies for the delay." He begrudgingly notes that that's two birds with one stone. Warren had been kicking around ideas about how to get the Maxwell family out of the picture; the kind of emotional compromise an interaction with them could bring on is hardly befitting of an SI-5 operative, much less one of the leading minds working on AI technology. Cutter's solution is, as ever, far more elegant. "Thank you, sir."

"You have such a way with AIs, too." Shifting a stack of papers, Cutter seems to be reading a report that Hyperion himself had submitted. "Hyperion's always happy to see you. You really crawled up to the roof to get at his solar panels?" 

Kepler mimes wiping away a tear. "They grow up so fast."

"And excellent work as usual in Ithaca."

Kepler braces himself. "Thank you, sir."

"But... but, and I know you just got up there, _but_ , we _sorely_ need you back at HQ before you're off jetsetting around the world again. I know you're excited to finish up in Panama with Daniel, but there's some work to be done here... and we don't want any delays."

Fighting back a sigh, Kepler nods. "I'll be on a flight out this afternoon." 

"Just what I like to hear." Cutter leans into the camera. "Bring Alana with you. I'm sure she'll be _thrilled_ to see what we have in store for her at Canaveral."

**Author's Note:**

> happy holidays! (:


End file.
